re ees the American. At least I shall not be
altogether bored.'

IV.

That noon, in a restaurant of Chelsea, the district of Pensioners and
Bohemians, two young gentlemen, considerably in need of renovation by
both tailor and barber, met at a table and nodded gloomily. One was
Johnston Smyth, an artist, who, finding himself possessed neither of a
technique nor of the industry to acquire one, had evolved a
super-futurist style that had made him famous in a night. He was
spoken of as 'a new force;' it was prophesied that English Art would
date from him. Unfortunately his friends neglected to buy his
paintings, and as his art was a vivid one, consisting of vast
quantities of colour splashed indiscriminately on the canvas, it took
more than his available funds to purchase the accessories of his
calling. He was tall, with expressive arms that were too long for his
sleeves, and a nose that would have done credit to a field-marshal.

The other was Norton Pyford, the modernist composer, who had developed
the study of discord to such a point that his very features seemed to
lack proportion, and when he smiled his face presented a lop-sided
appearance. He had given a recital which set every one who is any one
in London talking. There was but one drawback--they talked so much
that he could persuade no one to listen, and he carried his discords
about with him, like a bad half-crown, unable to rid himself of them.
He was short, with a retreating forehead and an overhanging wealth of
black, thread-like hair, gamely covering the retreat as best it could.

'Hello, Smyth!' drawled the composer, who affected a manner of speech
usually confined to footmen in the best families. 'Hah d' do?'

'Topping, Pyford. How's things?'

'Rotten.'

'Same here.'

'I say, you couldn't'----

'Just what I was going to ask you.'

The composer sighed; the artist echoed the sigh.

'Have you seen Shaw's show?'

'Awful, isn't it?'

'Putrid--but the English don't'----

'Ah! What a race!'

'Just so. I say, are you going to Lady Durwent's on Friday?'

'Yes, rather.'

'Look here, old fellow--don't dress, eh?'

'Right. Let's be natural--what? Just Bohemians.'

'The very thing. By-the-by, you don't know a laundry that gives'----

'No, I can't say I do.'

'Well, so long.'

'Good-bye.'

'See you Friday.'

'Right.'

V.

Mrs. Le Roy Jennings looked up from her task of drafting the new
Resolution to be presented to P